


worship and warmth

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Moths - Ouida, Undisclosed Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Correze and Vere worship each other.
Relationships: Vere Herbert/Raphael de Corrèze
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	worship and warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).



Sometimes, before they went to bed together, Correze knelt before Vere.

“I want to worship you tonight,” he would tell her fervently. “May I do that?”

Vere would flush. She had sometimes in her girlhood had fantasies about a lover who would be her knight in shining armor, who would love her with a chivalric, holy, worshipful love. These dreams she had largely put aside when she married. She had used them to dictate her own actions—still she would act the lady to her husband, she told herself, no matter what—but had ceased to expect any such behavior from Zouroff. And to accept such love from Correze would she felt have been dishonorable.

Now, however, she accepted whatever Correze was willing to give her, worship included. And to Correze this kind of passion, eager and almost desperately elevated, was second nature.

He would kiss her ankles and work his way up her legs, eyes wide and always darting back up to her face, as if to assure himself this was acceptable or perhaps to assure himself that this was still her, that she was still real and really his after all his years of longing. She would sit still like a marble statue at first, but as his lips rose higher and his kisses and touches grew more fevered, she would find herself squirming and moving closer to him, moving with every touch. Her hands would wander down to stroke his hair, to clasp his hands and pull him closer, or sometimes—often—at last down to his throat.

The scar there had faded over time. It was no longer frightening, though ladies of high society might still have called it ugly, as it was pale and ragged and the skin there still a little rough. To her it was beautiful. Correze had been willing to die for love of her and almost had died. She would stroke the scar, and he would pause his ministrations to lean into her touch and kiss her arm as she caressed him.

In truth she worshipped him too.

Then, he or she would lift the skirt of her nightgown and he would move in, lean in between her legs, and work his way closer and closer in until at last he found the spot that would make her gasp with pricks, shots of pleasure. He would linger there for quite a while until she pulled him up to kiss her lips (his mouth wet and sticky, tasting a little of salt) and then guide him to lie down on the bed where she could show him how much she returned all of this ardent passion, how much she wanted him too.

She was not the girl who had first dreamed of a knightly love anymore, but she was still the same person who had first fallen in love hearing Correze sing. Sometimes the thought of him had been all that kept her going, over the years, knowing that even if the world scorned her, Correze understood her and thought of her fondly. For many cold years this thought had been a flame in her chest: It had warmed her and scorched her in turn, when she remembered how little of Correze she could ever have, and couldn't help but long for more.

Now she had all of him, and gave all of herself to him in turn.


End file.
